Refrigerator Art
by waterlilylf
Summary: Three months after rescuing Duo on a stormy night, Heero reflects, late at night, on how much Duo has also rescued him. 'Puppy Love' side story from Heero's POV. Yaoi. 1x2


Disclaimer: The Gundam Wing characters do not belong to me, and I make no monetary profit from writing.

Note: Hmm. There is apparently an epidemic of 'Puppy Love' side stories going on. Chronologically, this is set roughly midway between 'Swept Away' and 'PL'.

I wrote this for Wolfje in gratitude for an exquisite 1x2 sketch she did for me, and which just demanded a story. If you'd like to see the picture, let me know your email address. Thanks to Kaeru Shisho for editing, as always.

**Refrigerator Art:**

The damn dog is barking again.

Again, being the operative word; I've already let him out three times since we went to bed and it's not even midnight yet.

Duo, of course, can sleep through it. He can sleep through barking dogs and ringing 'phones and blaring alarm clocks. Duo Maxwell, I've come to learn in the last couple of weeks, could sleep through Armageddon itself, and then wake up and charm the devil into reversing the whole thing.

Still, it is his dog. It wouldn't kill him to be the one to get up for once.

'Duo,' I murmur. 'Can you wake up a little bit?'

For an answer, his mouth curves drowsily, and he curls slightly closer, quite oblivious to the cacophony of barking downstairs.

'Duo?' I try it again, even more quietly. I've already decided not to wake him up. It occurs to me, not for the first time, that I could soften this wakening by using some sort of pet name, but have no idea what else to call him apart from his name.

Baby? Ridiculous. He's a grown man.

Honey? Equally absurd. He's not a foodstuff.

Darling? That sounds like something out of a romantic comedy; something Quatre Winner might say.

Love? I like that, but I'm not sure how he'd react. I've showed him I do, in every way I can possibly think of, but I haven't said it yet. Except late at night, when he's sleeping.

Nothing ever wakes him.

'Love.' It's just a breath, floating over the soft skin of his face. 'My love.' I say it again, a little less tentatively, but it's drowned out by Shinigami's racket downstairs.

'Damn dog.'

Still cursing, I make my way across the bedroom, negotiating the obstacle course of Duo's possessions strewn across the wooden floor.

When I first invited / enticed / begged Duo to move in with me, I somehow hadn't anticipated he would come with quite so many….accessories. Or that he would be pathologically untidy.

The house he shared with Quatre was always neat and tidy; granted, Duo's bedroom was less so, but whenever I was in his bedroom, the last thing I was thinking about was his disordered belongings.

I'd tenuously suggested him moving in for a trial period; he'd been practically living with me anyway. He had a stash of hair products in my bathroom cupboard; his clothes were tangled with mine in the laundry basket and our books and CDs had gradually intermingled over the three months we'd been together.

I hadn't quite imagined that he'd turn up at my house with his truck piled high with what looked like all of his worldly goods.

I've had to dismantle a wall of bookshelves in my sitting room to accommodate his monstrous plasma television, and empty a couple of the remaining shelves to house his collection of DVDs and computer games.

There is plenty of storage space in the spare room, but he prefers to keep his clothes on my bedroom floor. I did mention, last week, in a very casual, non-critical way (even Quatre would have been impressed by my diplomacy) that maybe it would be better to keep the clothes stored somewhere, and Duo instantly agreed and apologised.

It's my own fault that he didn't get around to doing it. The sight of him bending down to pick up his various articles of clothing – he was, incidentally, naked at the time - was too much for my self control and we ended up making love on top of a pile of his dirty jeans. They still haven't made it to the laundry basket.

And then there's the dog. As I open the kitchen door, he hurls himself on me, leaping up to lick my face. I'm sharing my home with two hyperactive, hugely affectionate creatures. Of the two, I far prefer Duo, naturally, but it's still rather pleasant to have these exuberant welcomes, even from the dog.

Quatre Winner would say that I've been alone for too long, and Quatre would be right. He usually is.

I hadn't anticipated Duo bringing the dog. He always made it sound like he and Quatre were joint owners, and I assumed that it made more sense for the animal to be kept in a familiar environment.

Apparently not.

Once the back door is opened, Shinnie races into the garden in an explosion of barking excitement. It's lucky that my closest neighbours are an elderly couple who are hard of hearing. It's lucky for a few reasons; Duo tends to get rather loud under certain stimuli. And he has also introduced me to outdoor sex. I can only hope the Smithsons are visually challenged; I know their bedroom window overlooks my back garden.

Waiting for the dog to come back, I cross to the refrigerator and pour a glass of my soya milk. It's nestled in the compartment beside the door, right beside Duo's outsize carton of strawberry milk.

The contents of my refrigerator have changed dramatically since Duo moved in. I have always enjoyed cooking and have a small collection of recipes on my laptop. It's like chemistry; ingredients are combined and then subjected to some form of external changing process. If it fails to work, you are at fault.

For Duo, my boyfriend, cooking is an exercise in creativity. Actually, for Duo, everything is. The occasional culinary disasters are more than compensated for the triumphs of taste and texture he produces. Unless he is working late, he is now the one who cooks, and my cupboards are full of products I'd never heard of.

Ever since his first visit to my house, he's been teasing me about how my kitchen is a perfect example of the 'early operating theatre' period. I like it though; it's minimalist, uncluttered, gleaming expenses of pale blond wood and gleaming metal surfaces.

Correction; it used to be uncluttered.

My refrigerator is a case in point. Pre-Duo, it was a glittering expanse of chrome.

Duo has gradually been chipping away at this gleaming purity. It's currently découpaged with menus for a local take-away; emergency numbers for the vet; little cartoons he's drawn; a flier for a new French restaurant in town which is offering special deals for its first month.

This is acceptable. I want him to feel that this is his home; to know that he's comfortable here.

Less acceptable is a small card belonging to a breeder of Cairn Terriers. That turned up a couple of days ago. Surely he can't want another dog. Shinigami is more than enough for any household. Given his size, his apparent gift of multi-location, and his destructiveness, it's more like we have a pack of dogs in any case. I don't want another one.

The other little piece of paper I've been trying to ignore for the past five days is a card for a nightclub. Duo will probably want us to go at some point. We've been out dancing before; sometimes just the two of us and a couple of times with his friends. The dancing part is fine; any opportunity to hold Duo is a good thing.

If we could have a nightclub all to ourselves, it would be perfect. The problem is other people looking at Duo; sometimes even trying to touch him. Our worst row, to date, happened after we'd been together for almost five weeks. He took exception to how I'd reacted to another man sliding his hand over Duo's ass.

According to Duo, he is more than capable of taking care of this sort of thing himself. According to Quatre, I am going out with an extremely attractive man, and I simply have to get used to the fact that other men are going to find him attractive also. Being possessive with Duo will only make him angry. I have to trust him, and not make a big deal out of these incidents.

Quatre knows Duo better than anyone so I have to assume he's right. It doesn't mean I don't want to kill anyone who dares to touch him. I must restrain myself from doing so, however. Duo wouldn't like it.

Damn.

He plastered the refrigerator with photographs this afternoon, like the refrigerators in other people's houses, like in Quatre Winner's house. Quatre himself features prominently, as Duo's best friend.

Hn.

Part of me would like, very much, for Quatre to be swallowed up by a black hole, or simply to vanish, but the other part knows just how much Duo depends on him. Part of me has even started, reluctantly, to like him. It would be easier if he wasn't quite so perfect. Quatre always knows exactly the right thing to say or do in every possible circumstance. He's woven himself tightly into the fabric of my boyfriend's life; they've been friends for so long.

They have so much _past_ together; a past that I can never be part of.

Am I jealous? Of course I am. Duo has told me that Quatre simply isn't his type, that there was never anything like that between them, but……But.

Quatre is, simply, everything that I am not.

The first time I saw him, he didn't really register, to be brutally honest. A somewhat colourless blond guy who'd let Duo get himself into trouble and wasn't capable of getting him out of it. Then he'd surprised me a little by proving himself a rather competent assistant on the rescue mission.

After Duo had said he liked me, and let me kiss him, the blond had faded into the background. Duo had looked at me, like I was something wonderful. He'd even smiled at me; a thing he'd never done before.

I hadn't thought he liked me.

The first time I saw Duo, he was dancing.

There was some sort of rock music blaring out of the radio, and a young man spinning like a whirling dervish, hair flying, and paint splattering everywhere. I could have watched him for hours. Then the tip of that glorious, mesmerising braid had fallen into the pot of paint and I hadn't been able to stop myself exclaiming.

'_Be careful!' Surely, paint had to be bad for hair. Maybe he'd have to cut it off, if he couldn't get it properly clean. That would be a tragedy._

_The eyes staring at me were the most amazing colour. Heliotrope – amethyst – my brain finally decided on indigo as the most appropriate description and then it registered that he was glaring at me._

'_Who the hell are you? How did you get in?'_

'_Heero Yuy. I'm the architect who designed this house. I told Howard I'd be calling in today. The owners have decided they want an extra bathroom on the ground floor, and I wanted to see the building before I drew up the plans.' I realised, abruptly, that I was babbling. Most uncharacteristic. 'Who are you?'_

'_Duo Maxwell. I work with Howard.'_

'_You've got paint on your hair.'_

_He flicked his braid over one shoulder; looking for all the world like an irritated cat twitching its tail. 'Relax, man. I didn't get any in the paint, and it's only the undercoat anyway.'_

'_You should go and wash it off. Your hair, I mean.' _

_Duo gave his hair another toss. 'Sheesh. Are you this anal about everything?' He grabbed his braid and shoved the end under my nose. 'See? One teeny tiny spot of paint, but if it means that much to you, I'll wipe it. See?' He produced a tissue from one pocket. 'Happy now, Mr. Architect? The nasty dirty hair can't possibly damage all those lovely shiny walls that you designed.'_

'_That wasn't what I – never mind.'_

_He'd turned his back, not bothering to listen. Damn. We'd exchanged a handful of sentences and he already hated me. _

'_I'm trying to get some work done here, in case you haven't noticed. In my experience, architects don't generally hang around watching paint dry, but if your life is really that boring, go ahead.'_

_God, he was gorgeous. 'The home owners are currently abroad; I know them slightly and they've asked me to keep an eye on progress. I hope you don't mind if I drop by occasionally.'_

_That was true. More or less. Considerably less than more, really.. But it was as good an excuse as any. _

'_Nothing to do with me, is it?' he asked tightly. 'For the record, Howard and I have an excellent reputation, which is why we were hired in the first place. We're not used to being checked up on.'_

'_It's not you; there's a plumber coming and an electrician and a tiling company. It's not like I'll be checking up on you or anything.'_

_Checking you out possibly. Fortunately, I didn't say that out loud. That wouldn't be the best way to ingratiate myself after this disastrous start._

'_Duo,' I blurted, 'can I give you my 'phone number?'_

_He turned around slowly and stared at me. 'Why?'_

'_Um, in case you need any help with reading my plans. I helped the Nortons decide the colour scheme and typed it out and you could contact me if anything isn't clear.'_

_He threw his chin up. 'I may be just a lowly housepainter, but I do actually know how to read, thank you very much. Now if you'll excuse me, __**some**__ of us have work to do.''_

It had been a truly disastrous start.

I had called by, fairly regularly, and Duo, who laughed and joked and sparkled when he was with Howard or the other workmen, was coolly polite and distant with me.

I hadn't known otherwise until I'd set out to rescue him, that night. Even shivering and in obvious pain, he'd managed to smile at me and his eyes had shone, just for me.

Then I'd found out that he and Quatre lived together, and I'd had a sudden, crazy desire to toss Winner back down the shaft and remove any possible competition. There was still the occasional time when I wished I'd done just that. It was a dark, stormy night; nothing could ever have been proved. Just a tragic accident.

But Duo had given me one of those glowing smiles and said they were just best friends. I'd known from the start they were close friends who shared a house. Just how close they actually were, I couldn't have anticipated. I'd never had that sort of friendship.

Duo had wanted the two of us to be friends, so badly, trying to get us all to do things together.

To Quatre's credit, he did refuse most of these invitations, but that still meant he accepted some. And of course he was always drifting around their house, getting in the way when I wanted to be alone with Duo.

And he didn't like me either. Oh, he was always polite and charming. The perfect, gracious host when I was in his lovely home. But he didn't want me around any more than I wanted him. I was never under any illusions about that.

I'm still not quite sure how we took the first steps toward becoming friends. It was partly to please Duo, naturally, but he is gradually becoming someone I can trust; someone I can talk to, even about Duo.

According to my boyfriend, Quatre gets lonely sometimes, which is why he must be included in things.

Lonely.

Right.

Quatre Winner, from what I've seen, is universally adored, with a huge group of adoring friends. Why would he ever be lonely?

I'm the one who could give lessons on loneliness. Not Quatre.

Even Odin is crazy about him; Quatre has beaten him at chess on several occasions. He's also brilliantly clever. Who isn't going to love a cute little blond who threw away a fortune so he could follow his dreams of studying music, and gives free lessons to underprivileged children and helps at a youth centre in his spare time? And just to make him even more appealing and vulnerable, there's an evil ex-boyfriend and a heartlessly cruel family in the background.

He has absolutely everything going for him.

I devoted rather a lot of time, those first weeks Duo and I were dating, to thinking of increasingly elaborate ways to get rid of Quatre Winner. I should have thrown him down that damn hole at the start.

Problem – and possible competition – eliminated.

On our first date, Duo had spent an inordinate amount of time talking about Quatre. Well, that isn't entirely fair. He told me about the months he'd spent volunteering at an orphanage in South America, where he'd first met Quatre, and how he'd eventually come back to Sanque and gone to work for Howard, and shared an apartment with Quatre, and the places he'd travelled to, with bloody Quatre, and how Quatre's grandmother had bought him a house for his twenty first birthday, and they'd renovated it together.

I hadn't said much on that occasion, partly because I couldn't get a word in anyway, even if I'd wanted. Which I hadn't, really. Duo was telling me his life story, more or less, and I was fascinated, not just by the actual details, but about how honest and open he was about everything.

I hadn't realised then just how many of the details he'd simply glossed over. The time he'd spent at the Maxwell orphanage, and Solo's death, and the fact that he blamed himself for it.

I'd listened, enchanted, to Duo telling me about his life and his world and tried not to let him see how terrified I was that I'd somehow say the wrong thing at the wrong moment, and that he'd never want to see me again. I wanted to remember every sentence, every expression on his beautiful face, just in case.

I hadn't shared much about myself then. Not for weeks. I'd wondered, occasionally, if Duo just wasn't curious enough about me to ask. It took a while to realise that he knew just how hard it was for me to open up like that, that he'd been, very slowly, creating an atmosphere where I felt comfortable enough to relax with him.

He'd never once pressured me into anything.

No wonder I love him.

Enough to let him destroy my perfectly clean, orderly home, and cover my refrigerator with photographs of his ex-boyfriends. He complains about what he calls my possessiveness, so I won't even be allowed to complain about the picture of Zechs; one arm thrown around Duo's shoulder, on a beach somewhere. The fact that Relena and Quatre are also in the frame doesn't really make it any less acceptable. That picture, somehow, will have to have a small accident.

As far as I can see there is no method, chronological or otherwise, to how these photographs have been arranged. Knowing Duo, he probably just stuck them on haphazardly, affixing them with little frog-shaped magnets.

There is a picture of me, bending down to pat Shinigami. One that is just me, looking into the camera rather wistfully. There is one of me with Duo; I am sitting on the front step, with him beside me, leaning on my shoulder and beaming. I think I remember Relena taking that one. I'm not smiling, exactly, but I do look happy and one hand is firmly entangled in Duo's.

It's rather a nice thought, that I can see this picture every time I go to get a glass of milk, and I resolve to put up more of us together. I can even get one framed for my desk.

There is a picture of Odin, smiling rather self-consciously and wearing a paper crown. He still doesn't like having his photograph taken; too many years hiding in the shadows.

That one is from Christmas Day. Quatre had invited us both and Zechs and Relena and Duo's friend Hilde, over to spend the day with him and Duo. It was strange being part of all that ritual; familiar only from books and TV.

He had made us each Christmas stockings full of little gifts. All carefully chosen and exquisitely wrapped. He'd played Christmas carols on the piano, and we'd played charades after dinner and drunk mulled wine. Not Duo, of course; he doesn't drink alcohol.

There are some old, faded photographs of me as a child; on a camping trip with Odin. I don't even remember them being taken. Duo must have asked Odin for pictures of me, growing up.

Duo, an orphan who grew up mainly on the streets and who never had a family, cried in my arms when I talked about how I'd grown up.

My parents had died when I was three. Too young to remember very much. I sometimes think that I remember a man's voice or a woman's laugh, or the scent of her perfume. Probably just imagination. My parents' best friend, Odin, became my official guardian. At the time of their deaths, he'd been in deepest cover in Eastern Europe and I'd been sent to Professor J, a distant relation of my mother's.

He'd never been actively cruel. He hadn't ever wanted to take me in but did it for the sake of my mother's memory. Until I was seven I lived, more or less, in his lab, haphazardly looked after by his various assistants, and then Odin took charge of me.

Then I'd had years of moving around with my new guardian, who firmly believed in the benefits of foreign travel. I suppose, having a child with him had probably strengthened whatever false identity he was living under at the time. Assassins do not, as a rule, take their children along.

Duo had let me cry when I talked about the job that had gone wrong; the little girl who had died.

Odin and I had both left the business at that point. He had set up a private security firm – poacher turned gamekeeper in its most literal sense – and I'd studied to become an architect.

All of those years, scoping out vantage points and exit routes and clear lines of fire had given me an appreciation of how buildings were made. It was a chance to create things. Places of employment; homes for families to be happy.

I'd designed my own house and it had been perfect except for one factor.

And now I have a dog and Duo to _make_ it perfect.

As I drain my glass and rinse it off in the sink, Shinnie scrapes at the door, having seen off whatever monsters are infesting the back garden. Satisfied with his guarding duties, he gives my hand a quick swipe of his tongue, and curls up in his basket. I enjoy having a pet sometimes.

Duo is sprawled all over the bed, starfish-fashion, but lets me climb in. He doesn't even wake when I pull him on top of me; this way I can feel him against me all night. I love holding him like this; his head tucked under my chin; his cheek resting on my heart, the fingers of one hand stroking his braid.

'I love you,' I say softly, the way I always do, so as not to wake him, and this time his lashes flutter open.

'You know, Heero, one of these nights you could say that out loud.'

Hn. Not such a sound sleeper as I'd imagined then. His eyes are glimmering moonlit indigo, smiling at me, asking me for the gift of those three small words.

'I love you.' I marvel that I am allowed to say this to him, to the most beautiful amazing man I have ever met, and he smiles, that slow smile that starts with a quirk of the left corner of his mouth and blossoms into such beauty that it takes my breath away.

'Love you too.' He says it, as always, as if it's the most natural thing in the world, moving slightly so he can look at me. 'I've been dying for you to say that to me.'

'I'm sorry. You've been very patient.'

He grins, shifting again; altering our positions very slightly. 'About some things.' His beautiful eyes gleam into mine. 'Not so much about others.' His body slides over mine, as he reaches up to kiss me. 'Heero. Love me?'

'Always.'

He laughs softly as I flip us both over, reversing our positions. He likes it, sometimes, when I take control in bed.

I loosen his braid with one hand, so I can touch the flowing waves of hair while the other reaches for the tube of lubricant. Another change since he moved in; there is always lube on my bedside table.

There is always a pile of dirty clothes on the floor. There is always hair clogging up the shower drain; the first time I mentioned this, he said maybe the easiest thing would be for him just to cut it off. I haven't brought up the topic again. There is an insane, accident-prone dog, who requires frequent trips to the vet.

There are homecomings to a delicious smell of dinner cooking, and Duo throwing himself into my arms. Occasionally, we even get around to eating before it's burnt to a crisp. The first week Duo lived here, the local restaurants and takeaways did very well out of us.

There is falling asleep with him in my embrace, and waking with his hair tickling my chin.

I have Duo Maxwell in my life and it is perfect.


End file.
